Chapter 3

3

For the next seven days, I was constantly on the move.

On the first day, I went to the County Recorder's office. The lobby was packed. I waited in line for forty minutes.

When it was my turn, an older lady with reading glasses looked at me. I handed over my ID. "I need to check the title registration for my property."

She scrolled through the system and tilted her head. "Your husband made a change last month. You were removed from the joint mortgage list."

I pulled a stack of prepared documents from my bag. Bank statements, mortgage transfer records, and a handwriting analysis report.

"He forged my signature. This report proves that the signature on that document isn't mine."

the clerk looked up at me. Then he looked back at the papers. He flipped through them and pushed them back, whispering that the nature of the issue was complicated.

I asked what he meant. He adjusted his glasses and said that a forged signature on a loan change was a civil dispute. If I took it to court, they would try to mediate.

I asked how long it would take. He said three months if it was fast, but probably over six months. He looked at me again and paused. "But you can start gathering your evidence now."

I told him I already had everything. He told me to file it as soon as possible.

On the third day, I used a contact at a credit agency to check all of Kael's financial accounts. Three bank accounts, one credit card.

There was a savings account opened six months ago. The recovery phone number wasn't Kael's―it was his mother's.

The balance was $470,000. The transfer records were clear: on the 15th of every month, Kael moved $13,000 into it. The memo always read: "Living Allowance."

I handed my friend a two-hundred-dollar tip outside the office. He tried to refuse, but I insisted it was for his trouble.

He sent me a text afterward: "Sage, your husband is a total piece of work." I just replied with a smiley face.

On the fifth day, I went to The Grand Riverside Hotel alone. The floor manager, Mr. Miller, was surprised to see me. He probably didn't expect a client to come in alone on a weekday morning.

"Mr. Miller, for the banquet next Saturday at 7 PM. The 40-person room is already booked by Kael Vaughn."

He checked the system. "Yes. Third floor. Ballroom A."

"Ballroom B is still vacant, right?"

"It is."

"Give me Ballroom B too. I'll pay for it separately."

He looked confused, but he didn't ask questions. Hotel managers see a lot of weird things. A daughter-in-law booking the room next door didn't even make his top fifty list.

"I need to do something else." I placed a laptop on his desk. "I need Ballroom B's computer to have access to Ballroom A's big screen. They share the same audio-visual system, right?"

He looked at the laptop, then at me.

"At 8 PM sharp, hit play. The file is named 'Surprise'."

He nodded slowly. He didn't ask a single thing. Smart man.

On the sixth night, Kael didn't get home until 11 PM. I was sitting on the sofa in the dark. He fumbled with his keys and saw my silhouette.

"You're still up?"

"Waiting for you."

He kicked off his shoes. "What is it?"

"For your mom's birthday... I prepared a very special gift."

I couldn't see his face in the dark. I only heard the sound of his shoes hitting the floor. One, then the other.

"What did you get?"

"A surprise."

Silence. He took a few steps toward the bedroom.

"Whatever," his voice echoed from the hallway.

Right. Whatever. You've said that for three years.

Every time I asked for your opinion, it was "whatever." When I picked the house decor―whatever. When I needed him to sign my surgery consent form―whatever, just let my mom do it.

When I asked if you loved me―whatever.

Tomorrow, that word isn't going to work anymore.